PHOBIA - Kwayera
He was startled out of his rather deep morning-newspaper-reverie (taken sitting contentedly at the kitchen bench, at about eight o'clock on a Saturday morning) by a sudden thump coming from the bedroom. Frowning, he lowered the paper for a moment, scrutinized the hallway and listened intently – and then he snickered at himself, raising the newspaper again and turning the page. Hockey scores. Excellent. He was far too paranoid for his own good. Besides, this was great coffee. He picked up the mug, closing his eyes and inhaled the-
A high-pitched, feminine yelp had him almost tipping the coffee down his rumpled shirt.
"Vaughn!"
He barely had time to stand up in answer to her cry when Sydney came hurtling down the hallway, wearing only a dressing gown, wet hair streaming behind her and eyes wide with fright – and she quite literally leapt into his arms, wrapping her hands around his neck, her legs around his waist and looking fearfully over her shoulder. Stumbling under her unexpected weight, he staggered to the couch and deposited her on it, gasping. He supposed he should have hunted for his gun and then charged down the hallway to defend his lover from what frightened her – but he recognised this particular reaction. She curled up, twitching, around a pillow, and only muttered in a tiny voice in answer to his almost exasperated query;
"Where?"
"There."
He frowned again, rolling his eyes at her vague description and arm waving obliquely in the direction of the hallway. He looked mournfully at his paper and coffee, swiftly cooling, and muttered as he fetched his tools of war – a plastic take-out container, and a shoe. With one last look at his girlfriend, whimpering pathetically on the couch, Vaughn shook his head and marched off to battle.
Arriving at the bedroom, from whence the sound first came, he surveyed the scene – two wet towels dumped in a heap on the floor; a rolled-up magazine with a broken spine lying haphazardly on the ground near the far corner. Scrutinizing the room, he spied the antagonist – black, hairy, about the size of his palm, splayed against the corner wall. Approaching it, he hefted the show threateningly, and with surprising swiftness he attacked – slapping the wall with the flat of the shoe near the thing, loudly, and it produced the desired effect – it leapt off the wall, and dashed helter-skelter towards him. He waited, waited... there! He slammed the now lid-less plastic container on top of it, trapping it. It squirmed around the box in fury, its legs making scratching sounds as they tried to grip the slippery surface. Dropping the shoe, he felt around on the floor for the lid he'd dropped in his initial assault, found and grabbed it, and slid it under the box. Snapping it shut, he lifted the now secure container, and eyed the beast inside. It eyed him back and reared menacingly, its harmless fangs scraping against the side of the box. Nodding in satisfaction he picked up the shoe and carried his prize (hidden safely behind his back) down the hall back to the still cowering Sydney. She had heard the satisfyingly loud slap, and asked in a timid voice,
"Did you kill it?"
He nodded assent and dropped the shoe back onto the floor (after he had waltzed into the kitchen and pretended to wash off the imaginary offending mess in the sink), and she sighed in relief. Sitting back down, he waited until she had – twitching and taking slow, suspicious steps, crept (or, rather, slunk) back down the hall, and he suppressed his laugh. Once he heard the bathroom door close he stood up again, went outside, opened the box, and shaking its prisoner free. It froze for a moment on the warmth of the driveway and the scampered into the nearby bushes, without as much as a by-your-leave.
Taking a much-needed sip of his cooling coffee he chuckled again – no matter how utterly brave she could be even in impossible, life threatening situations, Sydney Bristow, spy-extraordinaire, would always be scared silly of spiders.
FIN
Author's Note: Yes, it was ridiculous and silly. Hope you liked it, though. :)